


Magic Fingers

by omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Bottom Dean, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Crack, Hand Jobs, Multi, Other, Spit As Lube, flirting with the possibility of becoming crack, honestly if the relationship tag doesn't give you enough warning then I can't help you, the author sees your fourth wall and raises you an idgaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: A handy little prompt that I'm palming off to the rest of you. I hope you (g)love it but if not you'll just have to knuckle your way through.orIn Which Dean Uses A Vibrating Bed And The Bed Uses Him Back





	Magic Fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metarachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metarachel/gifts).



> I gave up on this fic about halfway through because have you ever tried to write sex where everything is a hand? It's not fun. Every scene is technically fingering. And I said "Rachel sorry I tried to write you a Dean/Bed fic for your surgery recovery and the fic didn't work but I tried." To which she said, "omg you have to include fisting."  
> No, no, Rachel. The fic isn't happening. I'm not writing it.   
> "Okay yeah but when you write it remember to include fisting."
> 
> Long story short I wrote it. It has fisting. [Gertie](www.gertiecraign.tumblr.com) agreed to beta because she's even more depraved than the rest of us. (Thank you Gerts). All errors are my own.

It was five degrees and the rain had turned into an icy sleet that froze on impact. Their case had ground to a halt and they were stuck inside until either the sun decided to show its miserable self or the witch threw herself at their doorstep and begged for mercy.

Sam crawled into his bed with a preposterously cheerful “Well I guess we’ll have to get up early and hope it passes!”

“I hate witches,” Dean muttered darkly.

“If we get up early enough we can catch her and you can tell her that yourself!”

“I hate mornings,” he muttered, even darker. He pulled his wallet free and extracted a handful of quarters. If he was going to be miserable he was at least going to be miserable while vibrating.

“Dean, do you have to?”

“Yes, dammit. There’s no internet, no pay-per-view, and no booze. This town owes me a rattling bedframe at the _very least.”_

“Ugh. I hate those things.” Sam dug his headphones out of his duffel and jammed them over his ears, giving the metal box at the end of Dean’s bed a filthy glance before pulling the blanket over his head and leaving Dean to it. It was the closest they could get to privacy when living in each other’s pockets.

“That’s it,” Dean told the Magic Fingers Box. “It’s practically just you and me, baby. I’m gonna have you going _all night.”_ He flicked off all the lights and waited until he was sure Sam was asleep before stripping down to his boxers and dropping the quarter into the coin slot. There was a distant _plink_ and he jumped onto the bed, laying down on his back and preparing for the awesomeness of a full-body vibrator. The box whirred gently as it started up, and he wiggled to get comfortable. Heck yeah, magic fingers! He laced his fingers over his stomach and waited for the magic to begin.

He waited…

… and waited…

… and… waited a little longer…

He was just about to get up and turn the lights on when he heard the box whirr again. He blinked in the gloomy room.

“What’s the hold-up down ther— _mmph!”_

The _mmph_ wasn’t the happy _mmph_ caused by a creaky bed vibrating to life. It was the kind of _mmph_ you might make if a bunch of fingers crammed themselves into your mouth all at the same time. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what had just happened.

 _“Mmph!”_ Dean said again, and this time it was a distinctly frightened _mmph_ because the room was gloomy but not so gloomy that he couldn’t tell that there was _no one standing next to him_ , which meant the fingers weren’t attached to anyone which meant there were _disembodied fingers in his mouth right now._

Invisible hands grabbed him as he instinctively tried to jump up. Fingers wrapped around his arms and ankles with frightening strength, squeezing so hard he was going to be bruised if— _when!_ —he got out of their hold.

The next _mmph_ was supposed to be a _“Sam, help!”_ but the fingers in his mouth curled so far back he almost gagged, and some of them wedged themselves between his wisdom teeth, jarring his jaw open so the other fingers could stuff themselves in unhindered. Two fingers pinched his tongue, pulling it out while even more fingers rubbed and played with it and _how many fingers were there?_

He tried to yell wordlessly but fingers pinched his nose which had the double effect of not letting sound out but also _not letting air in._ Oxygen suddenly became much more important than it had been a few seconds before and Dean struggled against the iron-hard hold of the hands around his body. He was getting the thinnest sliver of air from between the fingers in his mouth but it wasn’t enough to stop the room dimming as oxygen deprivation set it. He thrashed and stone-cold _refused_ to suffocate with Sam only a few feet away. He’d come back to life just so he could die of embarrassment.

He tried to force Sam to wake up through sheer force of will, but his mammoth of a brother didn’t even stir beneath his blankets.

 _Sam wake up! Roll over!_ Help!

More hands crept into place across his thighs and against his hips and even around his neck. The fingers in his mouth weren’t letting up and his vision was going even greyer in the already dim room. He tried to bite down but he didn’t have enough leverage with his jaw open so wide and this could not be how he died _this could not be how he died._

The fingers pinching his nose shut relaxed their hold and he almost convulsed as he tried to get as much air into his lungs as possible while the fingers in his mouth continued to poke and prod. As soon as the room had stopped spinning he started to yell for Sam but the fingers came back to pinch his nose exactly as implacably as they had before and it started all over again. His vision went dark as the hands on his body held him down.

This time, when the fingers relaxed their hold, he didn’t try to yell. A hand patted his cheek as if to say _Good boy._

 _I’m not a good boy,_ he thought viciously, but he had no way of proving the point when he was so thoroughly held down.

Hands began to wind and caress around his body. Two of them ran up and down his sides with long slow strokes as though he was getting a rub-down from an invisible masseuse. A masseuse with a proclivity for molesting their clients. More hands fondled his chest and fingers pinched and rolled his nipples. He tried to wiggle away but there were hands _everywhere_ now, and they were doing a better job of immobilising him than physical restraints ever could.

One hand teased up the inside of his thigh and he tensed. Oh no, no, no. There was no way he was about to get felt up by Casper the Ghost.

The fingers pinched his nose shut at the exact moment he tried to yell for Sam again. God _damn._ As punishment the fingers in his mouth speared as deep as they could go and he silently retched around them, his body valiantly attempting to expel the intrusion. Fingers pinched his lips and tugged them painfully, stretching them out so it felt like he was somehow fitting even more in his mouth than before. Meanwhile the hand between his legs continued its exploration upwards.

_Chuck? Can you hear me? I’m calling in a favour, dude!_

No response.

The hand reached the apex of his thighs and was joined by even more hands which tugged unceremoniously until the boxers slipped down his legs and were silently whisked away. He was now buck naked on his back in a seedy motel with what was probably a perverted poltergeist. Fantastic.

The hand between his legs tickled the underside of his balls and his muscles jumped as he absolutely failed to jerk away. The hand cupped him and squeezed gently and he had a full five seconds to think about the valuables he could lose if it decided to hurt him. The urge to get away was primal and panicked but there wasn’t an inch of room in any direction and if the hand wanted to yank his balls clean off he wouldn’t be able to stop it from happening.

He was breathing hard through his nose now and the fingers in his mouth were writhing like fat, unwelcome worms. Every few seconds one of them delved too far back and his throat choked up automatically, but it didn’t seem to deter the next finger, or the next, or the next.

The hand holding his balls squeezed tighter and tighter, and he went cold as he realised he was going to feel every second as it turned him into a soprano _._ Every muscle in his body tensed automatically but at the last moment the hand relaxed its grip and just cupped him gently. He let out a shaky breath and would have started his Hail Mary’s except the hand started _squeezing_ again and no, no, no, make it stop make it _stop!_

Same as before, the hand squeezed until he thought the pressure was going to tear his jewels off before relaxing its grip. Dean shook and panted through the pain and his balls actually felt _bruised_ from all the punishment.

 _“Mmph!”_ he begged, which was as close to “Don’t” as he could get with the fingers still crammed between his teeth. But the hand just closed tight around him again.

Almost like a warning a hand ghosted across his face and he managed to stop himself from yelling for Sam. The hand between his legs continued to squeeze and relax until everything felt red hot and swollen and couldn’t possibly get any worse.

And then, of course, it did.

Another hand _—how many of them were there?—_ draped itself across his stomach. It avoided the places where the other hands were plucking his nipples and holding his hips down, choosing instead to dip a finger into his belly button. It poked and prodded a bit, circling the skin for a moment before pinching the hair beneath it and tugging on the sensitive skin.

Testicle Hand began to squeeze again, and the new hand trailed down to meet it, circumnavigating Dean’s cock to stroke the skin of his balls in between where the other fingers were holding him tight. It wasn’t pleasurable, but it certainly wasn’t painful, either. At least not yet. The skin there was hot and sensitive and every caress felt simultaneously too-hard and too-soft.

Testicle Hand shifted, gently tugging Dean’s balls up until his cock flopped onto his stomach. He looked down his body and in the gloom he could just make out the terrible purpling of his balls where something invisible was flattening them. There were ridges over the skin which he guessed were the individual fingers. As he watched a thin line appeared up the underside of his cock. Almost as a postscript he felt the fingernail it belonged to as it scratched one straight line up to the top before flicking the tip. He jolted and tried to kick out. A hand wrapped around his throat, tightening in a warning as it forced his head back up where he couldn’t watch.

The scratchy flicky hand was apparently finished with his cock—thank God. It wriggled down beneath Testicle Hand and tickled the skin there. Dean’s legs were tugged outward until he was somehow spread even wider than before, with his feet were hanging off the mattress on either side of the bed. It caused a strain in his thighs that wasn’t at all helped by the way he was flexing and tensing against the hold. After a few moments more hands appeared, pressing against the underside of his knees until he was forced to bend his legs. His ankles were pressed to his thighs which left things way too exposed for his liking.

_Sam you better wake up right the fuck now, I think this thing is about to—_

His worst fears were realised as the hand rearranged itself and then poked a single finger against the place he abso-fucking-lutely did not want it to be poking. Neck Hand tightened as though it knew he wasn’t at all pleased about this turn of events. He struggled to keep breathing around the constriction as the fingers in his mouth continued to prod and play, saliva getting all over his chin and cheeks.

Asshole Hand (so named due to both location and personality) tapped almost thoughtfully at his hole, and Dean tensed impossibly further. There was no way that thing was going where it so obviously wanted to be.

Except apparently that wasn’t up to him.

Asshole Hand tapped harder, and then began to circle his hole, flicking experimentally every now and then as though it enjoyed seeing him jerk. Or feeling him jerk, probably, since it didn’t have eyes.

(At least he ­ _hoped_ it didn’t have eyes.)

The pressure in his mouth lessened as some of the fingers vacated the premises. His jaw was still wedged wide open but breathing became far easier with one less hand to worry about. As though it could read his mind the neck hand tightened fractionally and oxygen once again became a scarce resource.

He didn’t have to wonder about the location of the hand that had just been in his mouth. A bare second later it reappeared between his legs, twining around the hand already there. He felt the warmth of his own spit as it was spread across his ass and thighs. The fingers didn’t seem at all concerned about where it went, as long as it got to touch as much of Dean as possible.

And then it left, and returned to his mouth. A different hand replaced it, wriggling out from between Dean’s lips to meander down to his ass and wipe itself off against his skin.

Oh man. So gross.

Testicle Hand periodically clenched hard, making sure he could never concentrate for more than a minute at a time on what was happening elsewhere. His balls _ached_ and getting released was almost _worse_ than getting squeezed as the blood rushed back in. He tried to groan but couldn’t voice it, even with one less hand in his mouth.

Mouth Hand The Second returned and slotted itself back between his teeth, delving deep as though it missed the warmth of his mouth. Mouth Hand The Third extricated itself and went to deposit its saliva on his ass, too, and the pattern kept repeating. Balls squeezed and released. Hands cycling in and out of his mouth. Finger tapping and pressing against his ass.

It all pointed to an endpoint he would rather not consider.

And then he really didn’t have a choice but to consider it as Asshole Hand finally got enough lubrication to slip a finger in. A short yelp made it out of his mouth before Neck Hand tightened completely. He tried to see if it had woken Sam up anyway but even from his peripheries he could tell that Sam was still an unmoving lump on his bed.

 _Useless,_ Dean thought viciously, but immediately retracted the thought in case karma decided to keep him in the handsy bed forever.

How long _was_ he going to be stuck here?

His neck was released and he gulped air as silently as he could, hoping he wasn’t being noisy enough to warrant another choking. Neck Hand caressed his jugular which was maybe supposed to be soothing but somehow just felt even more threatening.

 _I’ll have you going all night,_ he’d said. What if that was what was happening? Asshole Hand popped out to collect more spit and then dipped back in. It felt unwelcome and way too big and somehow dry even though his thighs were practically dripping with spit. He didn’t want it in there for one more second, let alone the rest of the night!

_Come on Sam, wake up!_

His balls were squeezed, his mouth was plundered _,_ his thighs were wet, and his ass was somehow opening up around a single thick finger. This was not what he’d meant when he’d asked for a relaxing evening!

Asshole Hand popped back out to twine around one of the mouth hands. Dean desperately wanted to tell it that there was lube in the bag. He didn’t want this going _faster_ but he also didn’t want to be opened up with nothing other than spit. He hadn’t done this before but you don’t have to be a pornstar to know that spit isn’t going to hold up against any rigorous activities.

Asshole Hand returned to its job of spearing into him, swivelling and twisting to get even deeper. The mouth hand swapped places with another mouth hand and Dean got the residual flavour of his own ass. It tasted gross and, well, _ass-like._

Testicle Hand clenched hard and Dean tried to arch off the bed. It felt tighter than before, and this time it _held on,_ squeezing and squeezing until Dean thought he was about to rupture something important. When it finally released him his whole body relaxed and he fell against the mattress, sweating and panting. Which must have been the point of the exercise because as his muscles fell loose, Asshole Hand managed to squeeze _another_ goddamn finger into him.

Neck Hand tightened and he groaned inwardly, which is the only way to groan when there’s something around your neck and the tips of two fingers in your ass.

The process repeated itself, with his balls getting tenderised and his spit getting transported to his ass until the thought of dehydration became a real possibility. In no time at all the two fingers were twisting around fully inside him, and it felt not-at-all as good as he was sure it was supposed to. Didn’t people do this for fun? Wasn’t some part of this supposed to be _fun?_

This time, when Testicle Hand clenched down, he tried not to let himself tense up. Now that he knew what to wait for he could feel a third finger trying to gain access.

 _Oh no,_ he thought fiercely. _You’re not getting in there too._

Like he had a choice in the matter.

Neck Hand squeezed until he couldn’t breathe at all, and he was _really_ getting fed up with how much he was used to the greying at the edge of his vision. Wasn’t this much oxygen deprivation bad for you? If he got brain damage from the furniture he was holding the motel responsible. And also Sam. For not waking up.

Despite his determination he couldn’t help the natural response of his body as it tensed up, struggling to draw a breath of air through force alone. When he was about to pass out the hands released their hold and just like last time he collapsed onto the bed. The third finger wiggled its way in as his muscles failed to hold up against it.

Things went faster this time, either due to the hands perfecting their silent communication or the writer losing patience for writing scenes with too many hands. Everything was dripping and wet and it was the wrong kind of wet but it was doing the job. ‘The job’ in this case being shoving things in his ass that had no right being there.

The fourth finger was smaller, thank God. Truly he didn’t think even a pinkie could fit in there, but it was going to happen regardless of what he thought on the matter and at least afterwards it would all be over. Whatever was doing this couldn’t possibly hope to fit more than that in him, so he somewhat resignedly let himself get fingered and stretched until Testicle Hand clenched and his muscles tightened. It would all be over after this. He wasn’t willing, exactly, but he didn’t try to fight back as the hand released him and in the post-release respite the fourth finger slipped its way in alongside the others.

 _Okay,_ he thought, _surely it’s done. Surely this is the end._

Except… everything kept going. His balls were squeezed mercilessly, his mouth cranked wide open and his ass opened even wider. Asshole Hand twisted and turned and wedged itself as deep as possible and he felt the knuckles reach his rim which—

—Oh God _No._

He knew that there were already four fingers in his ass—though even that felt like it shouldn’t be possible—and yet the hands were prepping him for _more._

 _It’s called magic fingers not magic hands,_ Dean thought hysterically, and as soon as the thought had occurred he realised that _maybe the hands aren’t attached to anything,_ which led to the obvious conclusion that _maybe the hand would try to get in him and he wouldn’t be able to get it out._

“SAM!” he bellowed. “SAM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WAKE UP!”

Except what actually came out was a thin noise that sounded like a teeny tiny balloon losing air. Neck Hand had closed ruthlessly over his shout and all the other hands—the wrist hands and the ankle hands and the thigh hands and the goddamn nipple hands—tightened their grip to keep him immobile.

“HUMAN BODIES DO NOT WORK LIKE THIS!” Dean continued to not-yell. The hands continued to ignore him, and the thumb—oh God the _thumb_ —eased itself into his hole.

He bore down as best as he could but his muscles were overexerted and even he could tell that they weren’t performing to standard. They did absolutely nothing to dispel the four and a half fingers as they pressed against him, and pretty soon the widest part of the hand was shoving mercilessly, seeking entrance.

He whimpered silently and Testicle Hand released his poor, tormented balls at last. They were so swollen and painful that he could hardly feel where they ended and the rest of his groin began, but the hands didn’t make him wonder about it for long. The hand formerly known as Testicle Hand was about to get renamed as the Dick Hand, because it wandered up to wrap around the aforementioned appendage and if it started squeezing there as well then Dean was going to say sayonara to consciousness.

He tried to shake his head, but Dick Hand was so slow and careful, peeling Dean’s shrunken cock off his stomach and holding it carefully. It very gently started caressing.

_Ha! Good luck! No way I’m getting hard after the last ball-crushing hour you nut job._

The night had been a rollercoaster of broken boundaries, and it seemed this was going to get added to the list of Things That Dean Winchester Was Wrong About, because no sooner had the thought occurred than Asshole Hand twitched against some hidden part of him that it had somehow been missing this whole time. He was hurt and scared but apparently that wasn’t going to stop the arousal train, because his insides gave a happy kind of shiver and heat pooled low in his gut. The pleasure was punctuated almost perfectly by Asshole Hand squeezing its knuckles past his rim to fit its entire self into him.

 _This night couldn’t possibly get any worse,_ he thought, and honestly he needed to stop thinking that because if this night had taught him nothing else then it had at least taught him that it could always be worse. There was a whole hand inside him, anchored—thank God—by a wrist outside his body. But now that it had finally made it in it started to uncurl and explore its new residence and the pleasure-spot inside of him.

And then it started to vibrate.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to end my fics with recs because ao3 doesn't have an inbuilt 'keep reading' button, but i literally can't find anything that might be considered a similar fic. There just aren't enough disembodied hands in literature these days and I think we can all agree that that's a crying shame.
> 
> Perhaps you'll be interested in this fairly explicit [Thing/Lurch fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/181584) that I found.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic throw me a kudos or at the very least buy Rachel a beer. This is her fault after all.


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